


Dans La Violence, Je Dors

by koidragon9727



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Demons, Gen, Major Character Injury, Murder, Occult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26434384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koidragon9727/pseuds/koidragon9727
Summary: In the violence, I sleep. The story of Alastor's human life, how he came to be who he is, and how he passed into the jaws of hell. It goes without saying, but major character death is present, so be warned!
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Alastor/Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Alastor's Shadow (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Dans La Violence, Je Dors

**Dans La Violence, Je Dors**

****Please see end notes for translations/additional information!****

_ ******* _

_ Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy. _

\-- _ The Axeman of New Orleans, The Hottest Hell, 1919 _

*****

Alastor had always loved a good conclusion. 

How many days had he spent, both in childhood and adulthood, with a book open on his lap? How many afternoons had he spent on a steamy summer porch, words from authors long since passed writing tales of violence and romance that made his stomach churn with anticipation? He lived for that conclusion, that final rise in the plot where much like a symphony, the noise of it all could drown out even the strongest of heartbeats, and the most panicked of breaths…. Those were always his favorite parts. They put the lull of the mundane to rest, and for a few moments in his younger years, the world seemed just a little less boring, and maybe, just maybe, a little more safe. In those moments, he was a normal child, with a stable family, and he could pretend like the violence, the sound of his father’s hand cracking across his mother’s face, and the smell of burning supper just didn’t exist. 

For years, it continued like this, and Alastor wasn’t a fool when he saw how his poor maman seemed to grow into herself just a little more with every day that passed. Those books, those riveting stories, became nothing more than distant memories as he got pulled farther and farther away, called to learn to ‘be a man’, as his father called it. He could still remember the very first time that hunting rifle had been shoved into his grasp, and the way he’d balanced it for the first time on his shoulder… Alastor recalled how the butt of the gun had bucked against his body, and how that bullet had exploded through the eight-point buck, and the many bucks after it, and how such a simple, carnal action had brought him so much pleasure… 

It was enthralling and terrifying all at the same time. 

In most cases, when he was home, even when he called out to her, she seemed to be somewhere very, very far away, her dark eyes glazed over with what Alastor could only describe as an ‘absence of spirit’. He remembered standing at her side, calling her name, even going so far as to speak in that broken language of Creole they shared just to get her to look at him (even if it did get him in trouble by his Father). It wasn’t until he caught her one night, out in their shed, calling out to spirits and things he didn’t understand that she looked at him, really looked at him, and smiled, saying, 

_ “Pitit mwen…. Vini isit la.” ** _

How many nights had they spent in that shed, after his father had long since retired to bed? He remembered sharing those memories, such vivid ones at that, where she taught him of the Iwa** and the workings of magic she had learned from her mother, and her mother’s mother, something his Father had never allowed him to do. His mother would teach him the ways of her people and how to use his intentions to manifest his desires, something he caught on to and learned how to do very quickly. Before long, he was keeping notes, and making his own rituals… but of course, this couldn’t last either. All it took was just being a little too careless, not noticing as heavy footfalls approached the shed door, and not turning around fast enough before Alastor was thrown, mid-prayer, into an opposing wall with so much force that his head cracked against the moisture-eaten wood. The world was just a blur at that point, filled with the sound of crashing glass, his mother’s screams, and the sound of fists hitting flesh as he bellowed something about teaching his boy about those ‘heathen ways’ and how ‘she’d regret ever doing something so goddamn stupid’. He remembered reaching out, his vision swimming, as he begged for something,  _ anything _ to stop this…

When he finally came to, he knew. He didn’t have to see the ruined altar, or the blood spatter, or the absence of his mother to know. When he saw the mound of overturned Earth on the edge of their yard, he didn’t cry either, taking a moment to stare at it before his gaze would swivel to the house, his feet marching in steady rhythm up the creaking wooden porch, and into the dim light of the cabin until he stood in front of that god-awful arm-chair. Predictably, his father was slumped drunkenly in its seat, though he looked a little worse for wear (if that were possible). All Alastor could do was stare, silently, as he felt something in him start to bend. He would turn on his heel, walking to the cabinet where his favorite shotgun rested, all the while something akin to a mirthful grin spreading across his face. He would look at it, shining, before a laugh began to bubble from his lips, reaching past it to take hold of a heavy axe that had lain forgotten at the back. The weight was unfamiliar, and yet somehow perfectly balanced in his hands. That grin grew wider as he turned, approaching his father with calculated steps. “Oh, Daddy…..” He chanted, shaking his head. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…. You pathetic, stubborn, awful drunk…. Your bad habits will be the end of you, don’t you know?” He laughed, and though his father was still asleep, he did stir, eyebrows drawn together as if he were aware of some unseen threat. Alastor lifted the handle of his axe, letting it tap into his free hand before rolling it as if getting used to its weight. “You know, maman never did like this chair, filthy old thing….” 

That grin grew wider, bordering on manaical, as the shadows in the small living room seemed to grow, bend, and stretch. “You know, Daddy…. Maman’s favorite color was always red…. “ Alastor ran his fingers over the blade, letting its sharp edge slice his finger with an appreciative hum before taking hold of the axe at its base, cocking his head. 

“Maybe I’ll redecorate.” 

_ Swing. _

That had been the first murder. 

The initial blow hadn’t been enough to kill, but far more than enough to maim. The axe had lodged itself in his father’s shoulder at first, the man awaking with a choked scream before Alastor had already dislodged it, going for another blow. It took several before he’d finished, grin just as wide as when he’d started. The cleanup had been just as pleasurable, the young teenager taking great pleasure in the irony of using the very skills his father had taught him to clean and take apart deer to dismember him, piece by piece, until nothing remained but the cold remnants of a dead heart…. The only bit left. A smile curled on his lips as he lifted the organ in his hand before glancing at the kitchen, an idea in his mind. Perhaps as one last favor, his father could do one more thing for him…. He did, at least, owe Alastor one last meal. 

Human hearts make for wonderful jambalaya. 

  
  


****************

With his witty charm, and ‘a voice made for radio’, as his hiring manager had said it, things grew easy in the years that followed leaving his former home. Now in his mid-twenties, Alastor was the face, and voice, of the most popular radio show in New Orleans… and his nighttime programs and news bits were a hit with his audience. It became a well known fact that if you didn’t get the news from Alastor, it just simply couldn’t be true, or it just wasn’t worth listening to. His audience was especially enthralled with his most recent segment, his weekly report on the recent string of murders that had been occurring all across New Orleans. It seemed he was always on top of the details, the first to know, and his excitement about each new segment was palpable through his animated voice. 

Of course, this could just be because, well…. He had a front-row seat to every murder. 

By day, he was Alastor Richard LeBlanc, the excitable radio host. By night, he was his alias, the infamous and cruel serial killer known only by the alias ‘The Red Man’. Each murder was conducted with a frightening amount of precision and care, meticulously conducted like an autopsy with a skilled hand far too practiced in fileting meat from bones. Police were left baffled, families were left destroyed, and Alastor? To him, these people were all his unwilling actors, trapped on his psychological stage for one purpose, and one alone…. Entertainment. 

For ten years, he held New Orleans in an icy grip of fear. No one knew who was next, or why, or how…. With no leads, no potential perpetrators, and no patterns to follow, it was always with baited breath that the people waited for news of the next victim, the next poor sod to go missing. It went without saying that Alastor had done a marvelous job of covering his tracks, only taking what he needed from his victims for his personal use, the rest of the bodies fed to the bayou where bones would sink into the mud, and gators would dispose of the rest. It made for a wonderful Sunday night stroll, Alastor had thought, returning from the water’s edge as another victim sank to the bottom, to his waiting automobile on the dirt curb he’d left it by. He wondered idly why it was so quiet, the forest usually a host of sounds even in the bleakness of night…. It almost made him wary. 

He looked into the depths of dark boughs between the trees, peering into them as if they would yield him some sort of answer. No, something wasn’t right. No one should be here…. The closest houses were miles away, and the nearest town even farther than that. Had he been followed? Not likely, and if he had, he’d have noticed long before now….Alastor stood there for another minute or so before sighing, running a hand through his hair. Perhaps that coffee before he left home had been a bad idea? Caffeine did have a tendency to make one jumpy… 

As he reached for the door, his head turned, preparing to tug it open when pain exploded from his shoulder, pinning him against the side of the vehicle. His immediate thought had been a stray bullet from a hunter who had to have been in the area, but he was proven wrong when he turned, suddenly face to face with a half-dozen or so very  _ unsettled  _ looking individuals, hounds all snarling viciously at their sides as they tried to lunge forward from their leads. “My good fellows…..!” He called out, grabbing his shoulder with an increasingly pained grin. “What is the meaning of this….? A misunderstanding, I hope? One of your bullets seems to have grazed my shoulder. I’d be more than happy to forget this if you’d all come down to the nearest police station with me….” He said, hoping his attempt at being amicable would yield favorable results. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem moved.    
  
One of them stepped forward, a wiley looking boy, pointed accusingly in his direction. “We know what you been up to, mister…. You think we wouldn’t notice? Me and my pa found one o’ them bodies you dumped floating down the river…. We saw ya dump it.” The rest of the group nodded, murmuring amongst themselves. “We saw ya dump this last one too.” Alastor’s grin widened, sparkling in a mixture of mischief and awe. Of all the people to have been caught by, it had to have been a group of rag-tag hunters who just  _ happened  _ to be in the area he’d chosen for its remoteness. As a marksman himself, he really should have considered this… He supposed this was the definition of divine irony, a short bark of laughter parting his lips. The crowd seemed taken aback, probably having expected him to at least try to deny it. “Well, well! Congratulations, my dear friends! How remarkably astute of you!” He winced, pulling back his hand to look at the cascade of red now staining it. “You’ve caught me in a very compromising position indeed….. So what is it you plan to do now, hm? Turn me in? Send me to meet my fate at the hands of the courts?” He could feel his blood pressure rising, his heart thundering in his chest as he worked out his options. Fear was something he hadn’t felt in quite a long time, and though he didn’t fear death, he certainly hadn’t expected for it to arrive so soon. 

“You’re comin’ with us,” were the next words spoken, the lot of them taking a ginger step forward. Their dogs snarls increased in volume, likely a defensive measure in the event he tried to run. Trained or not, Alastor had never really liked dogs…. Loud, unruly things they were….

With a laugh, Alastor acted as though he were taking his free hand and using it to hold himself up. “Well gentleman, I truly do see no way out… However….” He grinned again as his hand wrapped around the familiar handle of a small Remington pistol, clicking it until a bullet loaded into the chamber. While having not used a gun in quite a long time, he’d always elected to keep one on himself for protection… Though this was a far cry from that, he supposed it would finally see its use as he calculated where he should shoot first. “I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to leave yet…!” Before they could react, he fired off a round or two at their feet, and while his adversaries panicked, he took the opportunity to bolt. He knew it was unlikely that he’d outrun them, and even less likely that he’d come out of this on a good end, but a spectacular death was far preferable to spending the rest of his life rotting inside a jail cell. No, only boredom awaited him there…. And for Alastor, death was a far preferable fate. 

As he ducked into the underbrush, he could hear the shouts of his assailants behind him, and the wails and howls of the dogs as they gathered themselves. He’d probably gotten himself a few minutes of leeway at best, but it wouldn’t be long before they’d be hot on his trail. The fact that he was injured didn’t help Alastor’s case in the least, as it was one more thing they could use to find him, and judging by the placement of the shot itself, as well as the amount of blood, it was likely the bullet had grazed an artery. Even if he did escape them, the likelihood he’d bleed out was undeniable. Running like this would only increase the frequency of that blood loss, but despite knowing all this, Alastor couldn’t help but keep going. What a turn of events to be the hunted instead of the hunter, and it was a plot twist he’d have normally sank his teeth into had this just been another story… 

Even as the sound of barking hounds grew frighteningly close, the grin on Alastor’s face never dissipated. How could it, when he knew he was about to hit the highest crescendo of his lifetime? It was so exciting, so liberating, so  _ free….  _ He could have lived in that moment forever, always on the cusp of death, and yet so wonderfully alive. 

If only it could have been that simple. 

He both heard and felt the arrival of the dogs before he saw them. The largest of the pack snapped at his heels, and suddenly, that overwhelming feeling of pleasure dissipated, replaced by something Alastor hadn’t felt in years.  _ Fear _ . He wasn’t sure why this of all things was what had finally broken his composure. Adrenaline spurred him onward, but it wasn’t enough to combat both the loss of blood, and an awareness that only dimmed with every passing second. It caught up with him when his foot managed to find an uprooted branch, the action making him careen forward. 

This gave the dogs behind him the last bit of leverage they needed to catch up. They were on him in a second, sounds of harsh growls and heated barks bellowing in his ears. He tried his hardest to knock them away, but the more he fought, the harder they held on. Alastor could feel their claws as they tore through his clothes, surely ripping his skin to ribbons beneath their feet. All he could feel was pain, blinding pain, from every angle, seemingly without end. It was enough to make him howl with agony for a few moments, trying desperately to cock the pistol still locked in his grasp. When he was finally able to wiggle his finger back around the trigger, he began to fire at random, the squeals of wounded hounds filling the air as they either fell dead, or limped away. 

Not that it mattered.

He’d lost too much blood. 

Through cracked glasses, his eyes rolled up as he met the eyes of the boy he’d spoken with earlier, a slow, weak smile curling on his lips. The gaze he was met with was murderous, hot… _unforgiving._ “You….” The boy spoke, reaching into his pocket to grab what was presumably a bullet, loading it into a long-barrel shotgun with shaking hands. “You hit my pa b-back there…. He ain’t movin’...” Tears were running down his face, and Alastor could only continue to smile. “He… _He ain’t_ _movin’ you bastard!”_ A sharp jerk of his arm indicated that it was cocked, the boy swinging it around and forward, its barrel now lined up with the center of Alastor’s forehead. “We… we didn’t wanna kill you or nothin’... we just wanted to…!” A sharp sob pierced the air. “.... We was just gonna take you in…. But now you done it…. Now you done went and _goddamn done it!”_ Alastor knew those cries of grief just a little too well… not that they moved him at all. He was too weak to respond anyway, and darkness now played at the edges of his vision like the fireflies that danced around them. As the boy sobbed, Alastor looked past him into the woods beyond, wondering idly if dying here amidst the old cypress was meant to be a mockery of where he’d come from, a dark metaphor that he’d never be able to escape the violence of his past. He’d have laughed if he hadn’t been so tired. 

Tired…. 

All he wanted to do was sleep. 

The sounds around him were fading, senses dragged away by the strangest sense of cold. It should have alarmed him, given that no part of Louisiana should have been frigid in the dead of summer. Truly, this experience was one of anomalies, and it became even more so as he spotted a buck walking along the edge of the clearing. How strange… and bold. Had it not been startled by the gunfire? The barking dogs? Did the sight of two humans not frighten it…? He watched it, time seeming to move in slow motion as it walked around them until it stopped, turning its head to lock eyes with Alastor. It’s gaze mocked him, filled with a fire Alastor had never seen in the eyes of man. As the cold barrel of a shotgun pressed against his forehead, he found he couldn’t look away, the deer’s flesh seeming to melt from its bones and face until nothing but stretched skin and rotting fangs remained. It stepped closer, its maw letting out a screech that chilled Alastor’s bones in a way he’d never felt before. The shotgun was nothing more than a background object at this point, the boy, and his sobs, both forgotten. 

It charged. 

A shot pierced the night. 

_ And then he was falling. _

**Author's Note:**

> Translation/Info: 
> 
> * Pitit mwen…. Vini isit la. - Hatian creole for “My child, come here”. It’s stated in Alastor’s official wiki that he is, indeed, mixed ethnicity wise, hence the reason I made his mother of Haitian descent. 
> 
> * The Iwa - Spirits in Louisiana/Hatian voodoo. Please read more about them, they’re very interesting! 
> 
> The events compiled in this work are of my headcanon, and do not reflect the work and opinions of the original creator. The events of Alastor’s death are very much up to interpretation, and this is what I like to think happened based on the information contained in the official wiki and that which was given by the pilot.
> 
> I can only hope I did him justice. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
